CCCXXXI. MARY HOWITT, 179*-18**. THE STRAWBERRY GIRL'S SONG. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it .ooks; There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine on the brooks; A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere. Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the op'ning buds; Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-tree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? They tell me that my father's poor-that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye can see; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem; It may be so-and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit! the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent it breathes! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and sights, Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm. delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing-sweet summer, come again. CCCXXXII. JOHN KEATS, 1796-1820. O Thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken· And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds— In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now, By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Bewildered shepherds to their path again; O hearkener to the loud clapping shears, Strange ministrant of undescribéd sounds, The many that are come to pay their Vows, Be still the unimaginable lodge Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between ; An unknown-but no more: We humbly screen 2. BEAUTY. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever! CCCXXXIII. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 1796-1849 SONNET. What was't awakened first the untried ear Making sweet music out of air as sweet? CCCXXXIV. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD 1796-1828. THE DEEP. There's beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky; And though the light shine bright on high, There's beauty in the deep. : There's music in the deep There's quiet in the deep :- And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; CCCXXXV. EDWIN ATHERSTONE, 1796--18**. LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM. There was a man, A Roman soldier, for some daring deed That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, generous, and brave, and kind. But He had a son, it was a rosy boy, In face and gesture. In her pangs she died Every sport The father shared and heightened. But at length The captive's lot He felt in all its bitterness :-the walls Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh And heart-heav'd groan. His tale was known, and touch'd His jailor with compassion; and the boy, Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm He was a poisoned arrow in the breast Where he had been a cure. With earliest morn, Of that first day of darkness and amaze, The iron door was closed-for them Never to open more! The day, the night, Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw |